When Kurogai opened his eyes, they had transformed. His pupils had shifted into narrow feline slits, yet unlike any natural cat's—they glowed with a pure, snow-white gleam. The moment he blinked, the chamber grew colder.
"So, this is the ability… interesting," he murmured.
His gaze flicked to the unconscious Wakandan guards scattered across the cavern. A faint white shimmer spread across their bodies, and almost instantly frost consumed them. Ice crawled from their limbs upward until, in the span of heartbeats, they stood frozen in place, their figures sealed in crystalline prisons.
The vibranium mine was no longer a mine. It had become a frozen mausoleum.
This was the Sixth Ring's gift: an ability he instinctively understood as the Icefield Domain. Wherever his vision reached, the temperature plummeted. Stone, metal, and flesh alike became brittle statues of ice.
Kurogai tilted his head, a faint smirk curving his lips. "A manifestation ability. Finally."
Up until now, his ocular powers had largely leaned toward the abstract—the manipulation of perception, time, or energy. They left him relying on subtlety rather than direct force.
But this… this was different. The Icefield Domain was raw, undeniable. He could reshape the battlefield itself, freezing everything within sight. It was, he realized, the missing piece—something his arsenal had lacked.
He closed his eyes again, attuning himself to the pulsing rings of power within. Images and words echoed in his mind, fragments of what this Sixth Ring might evolve into. Not just the Icefield, but other techniques—laser-like discharges, piercing visions, predictive insight, illusions that mirrored reality itself. A tapestry of abilities branching outward, waiting to be developed.
Kurogai's anticipation grew. The prospect of harnessing such tools thrilled him, for each ability only expanded his dominion over the world. He clenched his fist and turned his attention back to the mine wall, resuming his harvest of raw vibranium. The resonance of the rare metal throbbed against his senses, and he focused intently, his mind already planning what he could forge from it.
But his concentration did not last.
A ripple brushed against the edge of his perception. Someone was approaching.
In an instant, his ocular rings flared. His vision shifted, piercing outward beyond the walls of the mine. Outside, he saw them clearly: a Wakandan strike force had encircled the area. Warriors armed with energy spears and cloaked in tactical armor stood ready. And at their center was a young man of regal bearing, standing tall in front of his army.
He did not attack. Instead, he ordered the soldiers to surround the mine, waiting. His intent was not war—it was dialogue.
Kurogai narrowed his eyes. "So, Wakanda sends an heir."
The man was Prince T'Challa. Though not yet the Black Panther in title, his determination was evident.
At that moment, the prince's communicator chimed. A vehicle rolled to a stop at his side, doors opening to reveal sleek armor packed within. Shuri's voice crackled urgently through the link.
"Brother, take this. If you're going in there, you need protection."
T'Challa looked down at the armor—Black Panther's sacred mantle, though unfinished, newly redesigned by Shuri's hands. Tradition dictated it be worn only by Wakanda's king, but Shuri ignored that law. Fear for her brother outweighed custom.
"I'll be fine, sister," T'Challa said firmly. Still, he lifted the armor piece by piece and donned it, its vibranium weave molding to his form. A new Black Panther emerged, his silhouette sharp, his presence commanding.
The army remained outside, holding formation. Alone, T'Challa strode into the mine.
Inside, the scene struck him at once. His father's guards lay unconscious, their bodies sealed in glistening ice. The air was sharp, each breath carrying the sting of frost.
And then he saw him.
At the center of it all, seated against the stone wall with one palm resting on the vibranium, was a man—tall, composed, almost eerily calm. His features were sharp, his bearing regal, his eyes closed as though in meditation. Yet T'Challa knew this was no ordinary intruder.
Gathering his courage, the prince called out. "Your Excellency. I am T'Challa, Prince of Wakanda. I ask for dialogue."
Kurogai's eyes opened slowly. The moment he did, the cavern seemed to grow colder still. Those pale, slitted pupils locked onto the prince, and for a brief instant, T'Challa felt as though the entire weight of the mine pressed down on him.
"Prince T'Challa," Kurogai said at last. His tone was calm, his words deliberate. "And what exactly do you wish to discuss?"
Kurogai's gaze lingered, studying him. Recognition flickered in his expression—he knew the prince's destiny, the path that would one day crown him Wakanda's protector. But destiny meant nothing here. What mattered was the vibranium pulsing beneath Kurogai's hand, the resource he had come to claim.
He smirked faintly. "Though I wonder… what is there to talk about? What I desire is the lifeblood of Wakanda. And that, you will never surrender willingly."
The cavern fell silent, the air between them sharp with frost and tension.
_____
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